


Soonest Unto Crowns

by tessiete



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Naboo Culture and Customs (Star Wars), Obi-Wan is a queen, Obi-Wan wears a corset, Qui-Gon Jinn is the standard by which Obi-Wan measures his every choice, The Handmaids are Soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/pseuds/tessiete
Summary: Qui-Gon Jinn went out into the desert and found his Chosen One, but Obi-Wan was left behind.While Queen Amidala and her retinue are stranded on Tatooine, Obi-Wan is coerced into playing dress up.That's it...that's the whole story. Now, with unexpected angst!
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze
Comments: 19
Kudos: 148





	Soonest Unto Crowns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kyber-erso (aoraki)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aoraki/gifts), [TeaRex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRex/gifts), [MidnightDelirium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightDelirium/gifts).



> I don't know. We all just thought Obi-Wan was real quick to suggest Amidala's gowns for sale to Qui-Gon for it to be a coincidence. Therefore, he had to have tried them all on, and assessed them for himself. But then Qui!Angst showed up.
> 
> Hope you have fun!
> 
> ALSO the gorgeous art at the beginning is by the insanely talented  kyber-erso , and Padawan Obi in all his painted glory is by the divinely gifted  MidnightDelirium 

Qui-Gon has been gone for twelve hours, and Obi-Wan doesn’t know when he’ll be back.

They landed on Tatooine about fourteen hours ago, by the ship’s chrono; by the height of the suns overhead the hellish plains, they’re about midway through the planet’s diurnal course. Since his departure, Qui-Gon has checked in to announce his discovery of the much needed parts, his decision to stay the night in the care of yet another besotted local, and his discovery of a very special boy.

Obi-Wan has not left the ship. He has confirmed the limitations of their resources, the dangers pressing on the people of Naboo, and how that responsibility weighs upon the queen and her maidens in his care. Qui-Gon hesitates after these pieces of intelligence are delivered, each one more discouraging than the last. Obi-Wan imagines the vastness of that silence, how it stretches between them, and wishes he could see his master’s face, imagines how he might coax some bare smile of reassurance from Qui-Gon’s troubled visage, or elicit the comforting touch of a warm hand upon his shoulder. Instead, the commlink, the channel open and empty between them, seems filled with quiet disappointment, and Obi-Wan regrets that he bears only and always bad news. 

He speaks of sorrows, and the loss of hope while Qui-Gon follows his Chosen One out into the desert night of Tatooine. He eats with a miracle. He sleeps beneath the roof of a slave.

He has been awake for nearly forty-eight hours, but Obi-Wan is not tired. Instead, he is useful.

He patrols the ship. He uninstalls the hyperdrive, cleaning the moorings of soot, and checking for any compromising cracks or splintering where the new model will be anchored in its place. He inventories all the food stock. He calculates the worth of the few items of value brought on board by the passengers. He briefs the crew. He confers with Captain Panaka. He outlines a preliminary report for the Council on Qui-Gon’s behalf. He walks the perimeter of their unsanctioned landing site, and though it is dark, and the night far colder than the day, he still feels the heat of some heady future pressing at his mind. It’s an urge to run. To turn. To jump. To fall. But then, it’s gone, and he is left unsettled and bereft, as though he were some small animal of prey, feeling eyes upon him and startling, but turning his head to find nothing - only louring shadows.

He sighs, and goes back to the ship, climbing the sloping ramp with long strides, and raising it closed behind him.

“Obi?”

A voice calls to him in the darkened hull of the ship, and he cannot help the small, sharp inhalation of breath as he turns to find a young woman waiting on the threshold. She is blonde, regal, and he forgives himself for being deceived by the trick of her bearing. A handmaiden of the queen. He bows deeply to cover the ill grace of his reception.

She curtsies in reply. 

“I am sorry, Master Jedi,” she says. “I did not mean to startle you. Or is that not your name?”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he corrects, his tone mild in the dim light. “ _Padawan_ Kenobi. I am still an apprentice.”

“Of course,” she replies. “I was not certain of the honorific. Forgive me. It is poorly done, but we left in such haste that I’m afraid I’ve quite embarrassed myself tonight.”

“There is nothing to apologise for,” he insists. “Was there something I might assist you with?”

“Perhaps,” she says, and he shifts, drawing his hands into the wide sleeves of his cloak as she falls to a cunning speculation of his person in the dark. “Queen Amidala has ordered an accounting of the robes available to her on board this vessel, that we may determine if there is any merit to selling them locally to aid in our cause. Would you be so good as to help us?”

Obi-Wan hesitates. Amidala’s _dresses_? Well, yes, he had considered the option before. Considered it, and dismissed it. And yet, the possibility remains that his lack of familiarity with artisan textiles may have rendered him too hasty in his assessment. Or perhaps the royal entourage made a habit of daring escapes and took pains to sew precious jewels into the seams and hems. In any case, it is not his place to refuse such a request, so he bows again, a little less deeply, and grants his assent.

“Of course, my lady,” he intones.

She laughs, and it is not a laugh he knows, but something new, and young, and the clinging webs of his memory are swept entirely away by the brightness of the sound. 

“I am not so high as the queen,” she says, smiling. “You may call me simply Eirtaé.”

“Eirtaé,” he repeats. 

She smiles, and holds out her hand to him. He reaches out, and takes it. “Come with me.”

They step out of the darkness, and into the warm embrace of the queen’s onboard quarters where Amidala sits, her other handmaid before her draped in fabric, a mountain of rich velvets and silks deposited by her feet. The light is golden, and haloed round the heads of Eirtaé and Rabé, both yet clad in robes incarnadine and blush. The laughter of the queen bubbles warmly through the space, muffled by the softness of heavy carpets, overstuffed chairs, and a plush bed. It is a womanly space - a feminine sanctuary - and there is joy, and sorority held within like a blossom in a bell jar, beautiful and sequestered from the wild and perilous world beyond.

The door slides shut behind Eirtaé, and she moves to join her sisters, while Obi-Wan hesitates. He feels his own presence as keenly out of place, and folds his hands before him. The movement of his brown robes, rippling across his sand-white tunics draws the eyes of the women to him, and stills their thoughtless and innocent play. 

Eirtaé leans close to whisper in the queen’s ear, and he swallows.

“Padawan Kenobi,” she says, her voice falling into the traditional monotone of Nabooian royalty. “My handmaid says you have agreed to assist us in our accounting this evening.”

“Yes, my lady,” he concedes. “Although I do not believe there is any value to be found in selling Your Royal Highness’ gowns. They are too particular to be valued by commoners, and the parts we seek for repair, too expensive.”

A curious little smile curls in the corner of her lips as she considers the Padawan Jedi before her.

“We shall see.”

She motions to a low seat beside her, and Obi-Wan crosses the floor to join her there, his eyes down, his chin tucked to his chest as the gazes of the women follow his course. Eirtaé assists him to his seat, rearranging the train of his robes as she would her queen’s, and Obi-Wan blushes to be so attended. Rabé, a gown of raw _Onderon silk_ still clutched to her chest, turns away to hide her smile. Eirtaé, too, keeps her face to the floor, a stuttering of breath catching in her chest as she makes fleeting eye contact with the queen. 

At once, Amidala straightens, her voice coming out proud and strong, brooking no debate.

“Ladies,” she chides. “Remember yourselves. We are most grateful for the assistance of Padawan Kenobi, who no doubt, has a keen and cultured eye for fashion. Is that not so?”

Obi-Wan is not so quick to read the intentions of his hosts, as Qui-Gon is, still occasionally susceptible to bouts of naivety and idealism, but he can tell when he is being teased. But if this is a game of face, then his shall not be the first to crack. He squares his shoulders, and brings a hand to his chin, considering carefully the maiden before him.

“It is true I have seen many systems, and studied many cultures,” he agrees. “I would consider my eye reasonably astute in such matters.”

“Very good,” Amidala smirks. “Then let us begin.”

What follows can only be described as a parade of the grandest opulence and pageantry as Amidala’s robes and gowns are one by one held up to the body of Eirtaé or Rabé and examined minutely. Each dress is inspected for loose threads (summarily trimmed), uneven hems (a hideous offence borne by only one gown), and parsed for both their theatricality and suitability for political context. Once they arrive on Coruscant, it is imperative, they insist, that the queen represent her people, the threat to their world, and the power of her office with all the graces and charms of the High Traditions of Naboo.

Each gown incites a flurry of debate, Eirtaé and Rabé stepping in and out of their posture as dress forms to appraise the clothing of the other. Obi-Wan stays silent, until finally, Amidala holds out her hands to put pause to the proceedings.

“Enough of this,” she cries. She turns to Obi-Wan and he readies his reply for the opinion she is certain to solicit. Instead, however, she requests something completely different. “It will never do - this bickering between us - when there is only myself able to properly view the gowns on display. Eirtaé, Rabé - I simply must have your opinions but they cannot be given from such proximity. One can hardly be an objective judge of the effect of a gown worn by oneself, now can they?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Eirtaé nods, bobbing a shallow curtsy.

Rabé folds the heavy swathes of _gellivelvet_ and sets them aside. “Then what do you propose as a solution, my lady?”

She pauses a moment, a delicate hand pressed to her lips, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Padawan Kenobi,” she declares. “Would you be so kind as to assist in our exhibition?”

That laugh again, tinkling like the droplets from icicles in a spring thaw, and Eirtaé buries her face in some rich brocade. Rabé’s sly gaze catches hers, and she suppresses her own threatening grin.

Now he knows he is being mocked. But Padawan Kenobi knows himself beyond the confines of this ship, beyond the context of his role as guardian, beyond the mandate of this mission. He’s stood straight-faced before Jocasta Nu in the wake of Garen and Quinlan’s chaos, the only one caught out, and maintained his innocence in the execution of their schemes until she’d been forced to relent: he’d _planned_ their exploits, which is quite different from _performing_ them. Even Qui-Gon had been forced to acknowledge the skill of his prevarication, though that hadn’t spared him from his master’s discipline. It hadn’t dissuaded him much then, and he was certain, the mockery of three beautiful young women was not about to dissuade him now.

_Let them be surprised,_ he decides. _Let them be shocked by the gracious indulgence of a Jedi Padawan. Let them wonder at him._

So he rises to his feet, and dips another bow to the queen. “As you wish,” he says, and the maidens titter, but Amidala watches him with deep brown eyes that don’t seem quite as solemn as he remembers. 

“Eirtaé,” she commands. “You will attend him.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the handmaid says.

“Perhaps the Soujourner’s Gown,” she suggests. “Rabé, let us confer while they dress.”

Collecting a few spare bits of hosiery and ribbon, Rabé sits behind Amidala on the bed. Obi-Wan catches sight of her dropping an arm across the queen’s back and resting her head upon a royal shoulder. 

“This way, Padawan Kenobi,” Eirtaé says, coaxing him behind a tall screen. 

She is skilled in her work, and Obi-Wan finds himself soon bereft of his belt, his tabards, and his outer tunic. He shivers as a cool rush of cycled-air eddies over his skin, lifting his arms as Eirtaé pulls the inner tunic up past his shoulders, and high over his head.

“I’m not certain Queen Amidala’s gown will fit,” he says. Eirtaé’s lips purse, as she contemplates the span of his chest, and the circumference of his waist.

“Well,” she says. “You don’t share the same bust, that’s for certain.”

Her frank appraisal startles a laugh out of Obi-Wan, and she smiles up at him. There’s a sparkle of wit in her eye, but it is no longer threatening or predatory. Instead, it speaks of some shared mirth, and Obi-Wan realises he is being invited in on the joke. At this revelation, her smile breaks into a grin, and she laughs.

“I think you shall look quite beautiful in these sleeves,” she says.

Obi-Wan turns one out, and pulls the satina cloth up over his collarbone. “I have been told I look best in blue,” he agrees.

Together, they work the gown over his head, the fabric settling soft and heavy on his shoulders. He doesn’t wear the shift or supporting garments that the queen would, and so the silken lining slips over his skin with a coy sensuality, cool and smooth and falling like water down his torso. After the oppressive heat of the desert, and the fever of his private fears it’s refreshing. Revitalising. He turns to face the mirror: a long and elaborate piece of silver glass meant to reflect the queen in her full majesty, though he feels dwarfed in its frame. He shudders, a thrill racing up his spine as he gazes at himself, Eirtaé arranging the skirt at his feet, and adjusting the seams which sit along his shoulders. He rolls his wrists to throw back the sleeves and free his hands, the blue shimmering with movement, revealing glimpses of life and vigour in the depths of its inky fathoms.

Eirtaé’s hands slip from his shoulders to his nape, to the middle of his back. Her hands grasp laces. He senses her weight shift, and then she pulls, giggling as Obi-Wan is hauled backwards, gasping as the stays buried beneath thick velvet tighten around his waist and rib cage. He presses a palm flat to his diaphragm, bracing himself.

“Sorry,” she says, though she sounds anything but. “You’ve probably never been laced into a corset before, have you?”

“Oh, it isn’t that,” he replies, grimacing as she draws him in unusually tight. “It is only that all my other corsets are made bespoke.”

“Ah,” she murmurs, her voice warm, vibrating close to his left ear. “Then you won’t mind if we try tightlacing to compensate?”

He licks his lips, and turns his head to her mouth, his voice low. “There is no try.”

But her eyes are grey, not blue. The reference is unfamiliar, and the challenge in his voice belongs to someone else. Her smile turns quizzical, and her head cocks.

“What does that mean?” she asks. 

“Nothing,” he says, turning back to his reflection. “Lace me up. Tight as you please.”

“If you insist, Padawan Kenobi,” she returns, the devilry of her delight returning to her face, and racing through her strong and nimble fingers.

He shuffles his feet wider, and leans forward as she makes quick work of the closure, and Obi-Wan watches in fascination as his body is transformed from something built for practicality and spectacular athleticism, into something small, and delicate. His waist narrows so that he can nearly span it with his own hand, and he feels diminished in a strangely appealing way. Compacted. Focused. Like a crystal. As though he were the heart of his own blade.

“There you are, my queen” says Eirtaé, stepping back to admire the view in the mirror, and falling into a deep curtsy. “Shall we present you to the court?”

Obi-Wan lifts his chin, his eyelids dropping heavily so that he may look at her askance with regal condescension. 

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, my girl,” he drawls, pulling indulgently on the long vowels, and rounded consonants of his crisp, Core world accent. “Am I to be paraded before the vultures of the Senate without my crown?”

He flicks his wrist in feigned disgust, gathering up his skirts in one hand so that he may ruffle them most impressively to express his disdain for her bold suggestion, and she bursts out into sudden laughter.

“Eirtaé?” calls Amidala from beyond the divide. “How are things proceeding there?”

“Very well, Ma’am,” she replies, her eyes crinkled in merriment. “But I believe I require Rabé’s assistance for the final touch.”

There’s a susurration of eager voices, and whispers of fabric slipping over fabric before Rabé appears. She catches sight of Obi-Wan in the mirror, the majesty of his person causing her hands to fly to her mouth in shock, as she attempts to smother a peal of gleeful laughter.

“Rabé!” Eirtaé chides, “It does not become your office to so openly mock Queen Kenobi to her face. You dishonor yourself.”

Rabé takes a deep breath, and controls herself, her mirth shining as brightly from her eyes as it had bubbled from her mouth. 

“Apologies, my lady,” she says, most humbly. “You summoned me?”

“I did,” Obi-Wan righteously declares.

“Our queen wishes to be suitably crowned before making her appearance, but alas - there are no such coronets suitable to her Magnificence. What do you suggest?”

“Hm,” Rabé murmurs in speculation. She comes closer to circle round Obi-Wan, looking to find inspiration in the cut of his profile, and the grace of his bearing. “I may have an idea.”

With only a brief look between them, Eirtaé directs Obi-Wan to the floor where he sits, his knees tucked beneath him, falling naturally into one of his favoured meditation poses. An elaborate makeup kit is produced, and Obi-Wan watches in silence as Rabé and Eirtaé lay out brushes, pots, and a small well of clean water.

“Because you are our queen, and because you are truly our most esteemed guest, we will paint you as a bride of the Naboo,” says Rabé. She looks him directly in the eyes, her statement not only an expression of respect, but also a request for permission.

Eirtaé, too, has fallen somber and silent as she awaits his answer. Feeling the significance of her offer, he bows his head in willing, and modest submission.

“I would be honoured,” he replies.

Rabé produces a thin, round pad, dampens it in the water, then works a cake of white paint into a lather. It’s cold when she presses it to his skin, smoothing the paint out over his brow, down the ridge of his nose, and along his cheekbones. While she covers the open plains of his face, Eirtaé takes up a much smaller brush, and fills in Rabé’s gaps. She dabs at the creases beneath his eyes, and around his ears. She covers the furrow of his brow, and fills in the cleft of his chin. He sneezes as the bristles tickle the sensitive follicles of his nose, and pulls away to rub them free of the irritant, but Rabé stills his hand.

“Don’t touch,” she says. “The paint hasn’t dried, and it is important that you do not smear it.”

“Why?” he asks, and she narrows her eyes, gauging his interest, the secrets of her office, and the culture of her people before he speaks again. “I should like to know the meaning, if you would like to tell me.”

Rabé returns the pad to the water, wringing it free before setting it aside to dry. Eirtaé cleans her own brush, then prepares a small amount of carmine paste in a little cap, while in the mirror, so that Obi-Wan may see his own face, Rabé elaborates.

“It must be perfect,” she says. “Because a noble queen is a divine gift. Untouched by human hands.”

She points to the smoothness of the blend. The tone of his face is even, and there is no distinguishing where Rabé’s brush ended, and Eirtaé’s started.

“The white is for innocence,” she says. “For the queens of Naboo come to the throne as children. Pure. Honest. Unspoiled.”

Eirtaé tucks one hand beneath his chin, turning his face to her. With the skill of many years, she applies a small red dot beneath his eye. No sooner is she done, then Rabé’s gentle touch guides him back to her, and the second mark is applied. Both are exactly equal in placement when he looks back to the mirror.

“The tears of Prithi,” says Rabé. “They represent beauty and balance in their symmetry. But they also represent violence, and death. Because a wise queen can only be born in the death of a child. Her victory comes at the expense of her innocence, and for this loss, her mother weeps on the day of her coronation.”

Eirtaé turns his head to her once more. “The lips,” she says. Her hand is steady as she paints a smooth line around the bow of his upper lip, filling it in with the same red. 

Behind him, Rabé explains. “A flower. To show that she is in bloom, and that her planet, too, is flourishing. But then -”

Eirtaé draws a thick line down the centre of his bottom lip, leaving the rest pale and unadorned.

“The scar of remembrance,” she says.

“What do you remember?”

“War,” says Rabé. “Suffering. It is a reminder of what we left behind, and that we must not go back.”

Obi-Wan’s face is pale. The boy in the mirror staring back at him is solemn, and dignified. Regal. And sad. He reaches out, longing to touch this sorrowful creature that must be him, already feeling a kinship with this impossible queen, but Eirtaé is moving first -

“Now, for your hair,” she says. She reaches out to grasp his braid, her hand closing about it and twisting it back gently - _carelessly_ _-_ and he flinches away.

“Don’t -” he stills. She freezes. Their gazes locked on each others’ in the mirror.

Then, slowly, as if she fears he may startle, as a _oro deer_ into a twilight brush, she lowers his braid back to his shoulder, setting it down with the reverence his protest had confessed it was owed.

“Apologies, Padwan Kenobi,” she says. For the first time in hours her voice is soft, and sincere. She casts her eyes down, and presses her palms flat to her thighs. 

Obi-Wan rests his hand atop her own until she meets his gaze. “There are none needed,” he insists. “Now, shall we display our efforts to the queen?”

The brushes cleaned, and tidied away in the meantime, the two handmaids assist Obi-Wan to his feet, steadying him as the heavy gown briefly throws his balance as he rises. Rabé frowns in concentration, giving his face a final inspection, and Eirtaé beats out the creases from the velvet skirts, rousing them to elegant fullness.

They pull back the divider separating them from the attending queen, and step aside. His reveal is met with silence.

Eirtaé steps forward to break the quiet.

“We have dressed Padawan Kenobi in accordance with your wishes, my lady,” she says. “He wears your Soujourner’s Gown for foreign visitations. Made of _gellivelvet_ woven by artisans in Theed, and detailed with celestial needlework by embroiderers from your hometown.”

She pauses as Amidala nods, still unspeaking, her approval still uncertain. Rabé continues.

“In honour of his position as a revered guest of the royal house, we have also seen fit to paint his face in the style of your office. Respectfully, Your Highness, this last is the consequence of a cultural exchange between our two peoples, that we may better see and appreciate each other.”

“A cultural exchange, you say,” Amidala barks. “And what have you learned of us, young Jedi?”

He considers the woman before him, and the women beside him. They have all been selected for their similarities, and truthfully, in the mad rush from Naboo to Tatooine, he had not made any effort to see beyond that. Their simple subterfuge effective even on their allies for the subtlety of its practice. But tonight, he has seen them as themselves alone.

Eirtaé, with her grey eyes, and bright laugh. Rabé, with her reverence for history, and her faith in her queen. And Amidala herself. She is as splendid as any monarch ought to be. Serious. Beloved of her people. But even she is not quite how Obi-Wan remembers from meeting her on Naboo, and he thinks that perhaps the maid who travelled with Qui-Gon had been acting in her stead at the time. It is something he will ask his master upon his return. Perhaps, there is an advantage in the handmaidens that they have not fully taken into consideration, and even though there are no pathetic lifeforms of any variety to be found in this room, he thinks Qui-Gon would be proud of his efforts tonight. He has reached out. He has been complaisant and compromising. He has listened. He has been a diplomat, and more than that, he has been a friend.

And he steps forward to address the queen as one.

“I have learned a great deal, my lady,” he says. “I have learned of the suffering of Naboo’s past, and the long memory of your people. I have learned about your love of beauty, and the acute power inherent to such fragility. I have learned that though you may be young, you have sacrificed much, and will sacrifice more to ensure the safety and prosperity of your people. I know that Rabé respects you. That Eirtaé loves you. That you respect, and love your culture, just as I respect and love mine. I may be a Jedi, but I also know duty. I also know suffering. I also know devotion, and legacy, and war though we long for peace. I have learned that we are not so different, your Highness. And there is much more we might learn from each other.”

“And what might we learn from you?” she asks. “We have told you our stories. Would you share some of your own?”

“I -” he pauses, his voice catching on unformed thoughts, and self-doubt. “I don’t know what I might share. I am only an apprentice, still. Not a master. Or a queen.”

Then Eirtaé’s voice sounds behind him.

“What about your braid?” she asks. “What does that mean?”

“My braid?” he asks, surprised, for it is much simpler, much less grand than the Naboo vestments of imperial office. He fingers it uncertainly, the silk strands of his hair running smooth over his knuckles in its tight weave.

Amidala softens as she regards him. “Please,” she says. “I would like to understand.”

He studies the plait in his hand, narrow threads, and small beads marking out his successes and failures, denoting every instance of growth, every step towards knighthood. 

“It reminds us of the path,” he begins. “The Light. The three strands, woven together - they are the master, the student, and the Force. We are one. Bound to each other in the pursuit of growth, and understanding, and betterment. We are not perfect - the braid will unravel - but it can be remade better, more practiced every time. And every time, it is a choice to weave it. And the beads, the threads - they are for moments of distinction. A skill mastered, a milestone reached. A win. A loss. They remind us of the people and places that have changed us. And when we complete our Trials, the braid is cut by the master, and given to the student to do with what he chooses. He is then the master of his own fate.”

“And what will you do, Padawan Kenobi, when your braid is cut?”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“I will give it back to Master Jinn,” he says.

The queen is stoic. Still. Her deep brown eyes are fathomless, and unflinching, and even Obi-Wan, who has stood proud in the face of Council censure more times than he can count, begins to feel the burden of her scrutiny. His hands twitch, drawing up into the sleeves, but the shimmer of satina gives his discomfort away.

Amidala rises, and draws close. She takes his hands in hers, and leans close. A smile steals wondrously over her face, as though she is welcoming home an old friend.

“You are a queen worthy of Naboo, Padawan Kenobi,” she says. “And worthier still of being a Jedi Knight.” 


End file.
